No Angel

by Penny Vincenzi

‘Naturally.’

  ‘And so – we would be – that is, initially we would be looking for backing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Indeed I could not proceed without it.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I have put out several feelers. Nothing more than that. But I – well, I wondered if you – that is, if Elliotts might be able to—’

  ‘To what, Robert?’

  He felt himself beginning to sweat. This was precisely what he had been afraid of; that the obtuseness which she could summon at will, which she had made an art form, would confront him at this stage. That he would have to make a long, painful journey of the conversation, say every single, difficult word: rather than be allowed to take a blessed short cut.

  ‘To, well to put up some of the money. Not all of it of course. But a – a proportion of it. On a strictly business basis, of course. I wouldn’t be looking for any kind of – of favourable treatment.’

  There was a long silence; then she walked over to the window, stood looking out. He watched her: her slightly broad back, her long neck, her elaborate hair. She seemed to stand there for a long time. Then she turned round and faced him.

  ‘Robert,’ she said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Robert, I am finding this very difficult.’

  ‘If you find it difficult, then please, don’t even think about it any further. Without talking to the board. I understand.’

  ‘I don’t think you do. It’s not the concept that I find difficult, not the idea of your having a real estate company, it’s that you should have asked me for the money.’

  ‘Not you, Jeanette, Elliotts.’

  ‘Please don’t be obtuse. However you dress it up, you are asking for the money from me. You would hardly be going direct to the loan department at Elliotts would you? Without asking me first?’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘that would clearly be ridiculous.’

  ‘Indeed. But even if you did, then you would still be in an advantaged position.’

  ‘Jeanette—’

  ‘Robert, please. Just give me a moment. While I—’ she stopped.

  ‘While you what?’

  ‘While I – calm myself.’

  ‘Calm yourself? What about?’

  ‘Surely you must realise – no obviously you don’t – realise how – how distressed I feel.’

  ‘Distressed? But why?’

  ‘Because it seems my friends were right,’ she said with a heavy sigh. Absurdly heavy, it seemed to him.

  ‘What? What do you mean, what were your friends right about?’

  ‘They said – many of them said – that you were marrying me for my money. I told them it was absurd, that there was no question of such a thing, that I was quite sure you loved me. I went into our marriage believing that. It seems I was mistaken.’

  ‘Darling, this is ridiculous. Of course you’re not mistaken. And of course I love you. Very much. But—’

  ‘Yes Robert? But what?’

  He was silent.

  ‘Please do go on.’

  ‘It just seemed foolish,’ he said finally, his voice low, ‘not to approach you about such a matter.’

  ‘Foolish? Indeed?’ She turned round; her eyes were full of tears. ‘I’m sorry you would think it foolish to be honourable. Not to try to take advantage of me, not to try to benefit financially from our marriage.’

  ‘Oh really!’ he said, a rush of anger hitting him, ‘you’re being childish. Absurd.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You are. I am not trying to take advantage of you, as you put it. I’m hoping, Jeanette, to become more independent from you, not less. So that I benefit less from our marriage financially. Not more.’

  ‘Whatever your reasons or justifications, I find it very painful. And I could not agree to it,’ she said, finally. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, blew her nose, dabbed at her eyes. ‘I’m more than delighted to support you in your new enterprise in any other way I can. Believe me. But financially – no. I’m sorry. I couldn’t even consider it. Now – if you will excuse me, I have to repair my face and restore my equilibrium. I am going to my room for a while. I’ll see you on the garden terrace at lunchtime.’

  Robert stood looking after her; he wondered feebly how Jonathan Elliott would have dealt with such a situation. Not that, of course, it would have arisen.

  Laurence came into the room; he looked at Robert.

  ‘Is my mother quite well?’ he said.

  ‘Perfectly well. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I passed her in the hall. She was looking – distressed.’

  ‘She was not distressed,’ said Robert. It was plainly a lie; and Laurence knew it. He looked at him, and his pale blue-green eyes, so exactly like his mother’s, were contemptuous.

  ‘She was distressed. Quite clearly.’ There was a pause. Then: ‘I think you should tell me why.’

  ‘I have no intention of telling you why,’ said Robert. ‘It’s nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Robert,’ said Laurence, ‘when my father was dying, he told me to look after my mother. I intend to do that. If she is distressed I need to know the reason why. So that I can attempt to deal with it.’

  Robert stared at him; then he pushed past him and walked out of the room.

  In a small house in London, at almost exactly the same time, an interesting reverse of this conversation was taking place.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ LM was saying, ‘why you won’t let me help you. If I lend you the money – lend, mind, not give – you can set up your own building firm. Put an end to all this uncertainty, to being pushed around by foremen, laid off. I have nothing better to do with my money, nothing that would give me more pleasure. Please, Jago. You can pay me interest, at any foolish rate you like.’

  ‘No,’ said Jago, ‘I won’t take it. And don’t ask me again.’

  ‘Oh really,’ said LM, ‘you are ridiculous. There are men everywhere who would give their – their right arms for an offer like this.’

  Jago looked at her. ‘Wouldn’t be much good in the building trade with just the one arm, would they?’ he said and grinned.

  It was a very hot day: hot and somehow oppressive. London was not in good heart that day. It had not been in good heart since the old king died; nor had the country. It was as if England itself knew that the hedonistic, pleasure-seeking of the Edwardian age was over forever, that the extravagances, the self-indulgence, the endless party that had been the short reign of Edward VII were at an end. Those hoping for more details of that party were disappointed; Edward had directed that his private papers and letters, many of them no doubt deeply scurrilous, were to be burned. Mrs Keppel had been banished from court, rebuffed when she arrived at Marlborough House to sign the visitors’ book. This was in spite of a promise from the queen that the family would look after her. The sterner virtues of the new king, with his equally stern-faced consort, so different from the saintly Alexandra – who had summoned Mrs Keppel to visit the dying king – were becoming already apparent.

  The funeral was splendidly impressive, King George rode beside his brother-in-law the Kaiser, followed by Edward’s favourite horse, riderless, boots reversed in the stirrups, and then the usual parade of military and political luminaries; but it was the sight of the king’s little dog Caesar, trotting behind the coffin, an oddly touching sight amidst the pageantry, that touched his subject’s hearts. Every village, every town held services, every street was decked in black. Weeks later, the country was still officially in mourning. The famous black Ascot took place with everyone dressed in black, even the race cards were black-edged.

  But Celia was content, extremely happy indeed, enjoying life, her return to health and strength – and of course her twins. They were good babies, far better at sleeping, at feeding, at smiling, at cooing, even, than their brother. She had recovered quickly from the birth, and was planning a return to Lyttons in September. That had been the compromise between her and Oliver; he had wa
nted her to have a year of domesticity at least, she wanted as little as two months. There had been a bitter battle, when he had accused her of not loving their children; she had accused him of not loving – or understanding – her, of disliking her presence in the firm. They had fought before, but they had never struck at one another’s soft underbellies, at Oliver’s insecurity, and at Celia’s slightly lukewarm maternal feelings. They had made it up, as they always did, but the scars had gone deep. There was, even now, a slight chill, a wariness between them; a lessening of the intense pleasure they had always shared in one another’s company.

  But – as Oliver was constantly being told, he was one of the luckiest men in London; and while he might at times think otherwise, he also knew better than to argue. As everyone could see, he enjoyed commercial success, critical admiration, a dazzling wife and a beautiful family.

  ‘Don’t cry! Dear, dear Sylvia, don’t cry. Here, come here, please. Oh, dear—’

  Celia opened her arms: like a child, Sylvia went into them. Just for a moment; then she pulled back, rubbed at her face with her fist.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lady Celia. This is no way to behave, when you’ve brought me the girls to see. I’m sorry. So sorry.’

  ‘Oh Sylvia, don’t be absurd. Let me – let me make some tea. You sit there, hold the babies. If you can manage them both. Barty, you come with me. Then we can talk.’

  Celia went out into the yard to fill the kettle; Barty followed her like a small, devoted puppy. She was endlessly energetic, scuttling about everywhere on her wiry little legs. Being strapped to table legs, and into high chairs for half her short life seemed to have done her no harm. Celia looked down at her, at her funny, wide-eyed little face, at her mop of golden brown hair, and at the huge bruise on the side of her cheek. Sylvia had put that there; she had pretended at first, had said Barty had fallen down the steps, then that Frank had hurt her while playing with her. Then suddenly she told Celia what had really happened: that she had done it.

  ‘She gets on my nerves so much, Lady Celia. She’s so restless, won’t do what she’s told. Always somewhere she shouldn’t be, or crying to get out. I can’t cope with her. She doesn’t understand, I have to keep her in, it’s for her own good.’

  That was when she started crying.

  Sylvia had a bruise on her own face: on her temple. She said that was from Frank slamming the door on her; Celia knew that wasn’t true either. It couldn’t be. Sylvia looked wretched, so exhausted and frail.

  ‘I’ve fallen again. I knew it would happen, I knew it, I kept telling Ted, but he wants it, all the time, I can’t keep him off.’ It was a measure of her misery that she was talking about such things to Celia. ‘It’s the drink, Lady Celia, he’s started drinking quite a lot. How are we going to manage, how – and suppose it’s like last time, suppose—’

  She started crying again.

  ‘Oh Barty,’ said Celia, holding the kettle out to the tap in the yard,

  ‘oh Barty, what are we to do with you?’

  And then, as Barty smiled up at her, picked up a stone, started kicking it around the yard as she had seen her brothers do, and pushed a grubby hand into Celia’s, then, quite suddenly, Celia knew exactly what she was going to do.

  ‘She’s coming to stay for a while,’ she said flatly to Oliver, ‘just for a while, there’s no more to it than that. We have to help them. You know that’s what we believe in. Sylvia is pregnant again, the children are running wild, Ted’s knocking her about, and she can’t cope. And she specially can’t cope with Barty. She told me so, said she didn’t know what to do with her. And I love Barty, and she loves me. There’s plenty of room here, she can sleep in the night nursery with the twins, or even with Nanny until they’re a bit older.’

  The more Oliver raged, said it was absurd, forbade it, said that he would not have such folly in his house, the more determined she became. ‘It’s our house, Oliver, it was a present from my father, remember? I cannot believe you are attempting to forbid such a thing. A thing that will do so much good to so many people. To Sylvia, to Ted, to the family. To Barty of course. What kind of a life is she having, tied to a table leg half the day, and now being hit by her mother?’

  ‘And what did Ted Miller have to say about this?’ said Oliver furiously, his face working with rage. ‘This kidnapping of his daughter?’

  ‘She is not his daughter, she is their daughter. He’s very happy about it. Very. It will be a great help to them all.’

  She did not say that Ted Miller had been so drunk that he had been incapable of marshalling any coherent words at all, save that Barty’s was one less mouth to fill, and if Celia wanted to fill it she was welcome. Or that Sylvia, even in her doubtful gratitude, had wept tears of very real grief as she put Barty’s few ragged clothes into a paper bag and held her to her for a long time before she kissed her goodbye.

  ‘And the Fabian society, what do you think they will they have to say about this?’

  ‘A great deal, I’m sure. I don’t think I care. As far as I’m concerned, people like the Millers are going to have to wait an awfully long time to benefit from this report of Mrs Pember Reeves. Years, decades. By which time Barty’s life will be quite ruined, and Sylvia will be dead. What I’m doing is practical, Oliver, it will help them all now. And really, what difference will it make to you? You hardly ever see the children, except at the weekends. The house is huge; it’s selfish and – and wrong of you to keep it all for ourselves, for our family’s benefit.’

  ‘And have you thought what damage you may do to Barty herself? Estranging her from her family, making her confused, disoriented, discontented with her lot?’

  ‘Oh don’t be so ridiculous, Oliver. She’s not going to stay forever. Just a few – months. I shall take her to visit her family every week. And I – well I have had one idea. That I think you will be pleased with. I can see that – well that there will be adjustments. All round. And more for the nursery staff to do. So – I have decided to do what you want, what you asked me to do. I shall stay at home, taking care of the children, for another year. So if I do that for you, surely you will do this for me? And agree to Barty staying with us for a while?’

  CHAPTER 7

  ‘The Titanic! On the maiden voyage! Oh, Oliver how wonderful that would be. But do you think you could get tickets, I’ve heard it’s terribly difficult. Oh, it would be wonderful my darling, do try. Heavens, I’d have to get an awful lot of clothes to buy, it’s going to be the best-dressed ship ever, you know. I’d have to get new luggage too and – yes, Giles, what is it, darling? I’m talking to Daddy, I’ve told you so many times not to interrupt.’

  Giles was standing in the doorway of the dining-room, the expression on his solemn little face a mixture of determination and anxiety.

  ‘Will you come for a walk in the park?’

  ‘With you? Oh, darling, I can’t, I’m so busy, Nanny will take you, surely she’s going anyway, with the twins and . . .’

  ‘She can’t take us all,’ said Giles, ‘it’s too many children for her to manage. She said so.’

  ‘Well, then Lettie can go too.’

  ‘It’s Lettie’s day off. Please, Mummy, I do want to and it is Saturday—’

  ‘Giles, darling I can’t. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. I’ve got such a lot of work to do and then—’

  ‘You don’t go to the office on Saturday.’

  ‘No, darling, I know. But I have to work here. I’m sorry. And then – Giles, darling, don’t look like that, come here, I have something so exciting to tell you.’

  ‘What?’ said Giles. His voice was heavy.

  ‘You remember Uncle Robert? And Aunt Jeanette; they came to stay with us just before the twins were born.’

  ‘Ye-es,’ said Giles.

  ‘Of course you do. He’s Daddy’s big brother. Anyway, they’ve had a little baby. Isn’t that exciting? She’s called Maud. And we’re going to America to see her, in a few months’ time. On a huge new ship. Look I have some pictur
es here, Daddy is going to try to get us tickets on her first voyage.’

  ‘Can I come?’

  ‘No, darling, I’m afraid you can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, because it’s partly work, our trip. We want to publish some books in America. And anyway, you’d be at school. And if we took you, we’d have to take the twins.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it wouldn’t be fair otherwise.’

  ‘They wouldn’t know. They’re only babies.’

  ‘Not really babies any more: they’re nearly two.’

  ‘They still wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Of course they – Giles, no I’m sorry, you can’t. One day perhaps. When you’re a bit older. Now look, do you want to see some pictures of the ship? Titanic, it’s called.’

  ‘Ships are always called she, not it,’ said Giles. He walked out of the room. Celia looked after him.

  ‘Oh dear—’

  ‘We could take them all, you know,’ said Oliver, ‘it might be fun.’

  ‘Oh, Oliver, darling, no. It would mean taking Nanny, and possibly Lettie as well. And then what about Barty, we couldn’t leave her behind.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Oliver, you know why not. She’s part of the family. You know she is.’

  ‘I don’t know anything of the sort,’ said Oliver, ‘actually. But we had better not enter into that particular discussion just now. It might spoil a nice day. Anyway, I suppose you’re right, Barty or not, it would turn into a mammoth undertaking. Not to mention a very expensive one. Anyway, I’m pleased you’re so delighted with the idea.’

  ‘I’m thrilled with it. I do hope you can get us on Titanic, that’s all. But anyway, another ship would do just as well. And Oliver, it’ll be lovely to have a little time on our own. Just the two of us. It doesn’t often happen these days, does it?’

  ‘It doesn’t. Well I’ll leave you to your organisation. I presume you’re busy with the proofs of the Browning book?’

  ‘Terribly. It’s going to be late if I’m not careful. And we’ll miss the centenary. Not to mention the shopping. I must get something for the baby too. Oh it’s all so exciting. You were wrong about Jeanette being past child-bearing age, you see. I’m glad they’re so happy together.’